It Had To Be You
by gote
Summary: I probably wouldn't be so annoyed, if it wasn't so ridiculously clichéd to fall for one's best friend. -JamesII/AliceII-
1. Marry Me

_AN: Just a warning –I've already got a multi-chap on the run; this one is just for fun and not my main priority, but I'm still full of excitement and ideas for it. Expect much ridiculous and irregular updates. To anyone who reads Tangled, this is in no way related and the characters may be completely different to those in that story. All that aside, I hope you enjoy._

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><p>Aunt Ginny (who, I have to point out, is not really my aunt), always just laughs and says I've got far better taste than to ever go for James.<p>

Ha, if only she knew.

I just go with it though as I'd just die if anyone found out that yeah, I think James is alright. Alright in the way that's more than just matey-matey _he's a good guy_ and more the like _holy-shit-why-do-I-have-such-a-ridiculous-crush-on-my-loveable-cocky-idiot-of-a-best-friend_, kind of alright. Plus I know there's nothing stupider than to engage Ginny Potter and her fiery-temper-that-could-rival-a-Hungarian-Horntail's in an argument, so I tend to just agree with whatever she says. For my own safety, you know. The woman's too clever and tricky and stubborn and persistent for her own good. I love her though.

_Although not as much as I love her son._

…I didn't just say that.

ANYWAY. I stay in his room when I'm sleeping the night there because we've know each other all our lives and have been best friends since we were three-years-old and he pulled my pigtails and I pulled him off his toy-broomstick.

But it's not like it's just the two of us. Louis Weasley, James's gorgeous gay cousin, completes our pathetic trio of three people who couldn't be bothered making new friends upon starting school.

I sleep on the bed because James is too damned chivalrous for his own good (and if he wasn't so adorable I'd hate him for it). So I lie between his snitch patterned sheets and try not to feel creepy because I can tell that these sheets smell like him and I really rather like it and it's pretty damned distracting and doesn't at all contribute to the possibility of sleep.

Then James's voice speaks out of the near silence and the darkness and I nearly have a heart attack, thinking that it's something out of one of my daydreams that has just gone far too over the top.

"Alice," he says, "will you marry me?"

I open my mouth a few times but nothing comes out. I mean, really, what am I meant to reply to that? _Yes, please_? No. I decide to go for sarcastic. It's the language James and I understand best, after all.

"What, now?" I say.

I expect a reply much in the same tone. Maybe, _"Yes! Call a carriage, summon me a dress! Away we must wed!"_ but I can see James now that I've opened my eyes and they're adjusting to the darkness, and he's facing me, his blue eyes wide and serious. Something stirs within me but I shove it down and force myself to concentrate, to wait for the punch line.

It doesn't come.

"No," he says, twisting the sheet nervously in his hands. "If we're both old and unmarried, you because you're all wonderful and successful, and me, because I've reached the point when you're not an eligible bachelor, you're just pathetic, and I'm living in a caravan with fifty cats, would you consider marrying me so I don't have to grow old alone?"

I know it's just the kind of honesty that just comes out in the darkness to the people you trust and in the morning we'll pretend this never happened but it really gets to me and my heart hurts for him, because I know this is as close as he'll ever come to admitting his true doubts and fears and insecurities. I know that he'll be the wonderful one; successful and happy, with a beyond beautiful wife and dozens of naughty, loving children, but he apparently he doesn't know that and it's just _ridiculous_, but everyone has these doubts, I'd know better than most, and contrary to popular belief, James is only human.

He finishes his speech and we just stare at each other. Then he adds, as an afterthought or maybe because it's the only thing his speech was missing, "and because I love you, of course."

I both hate and love how easily he can say it. But I only hate how little it means.

I groan, because that's all you can ever do to his ridiculous ideas. He doesn't like to go all deep-and-meaningful, and luckily either do I. "James, that's never going to work," I say.

He doesn't miss a beat. "I know, I have cat allergies."

I laugh and throw a pillow at him. He catches it with his stupid-bloody-perfect Quidditch reflexes and adds it to the pile of pillows he's resting his oversized head on.

"So, what is it Ali-cat? Want to get hitched?"

I didn't expect the seriousness to last a moment longer.

"And not now, of course," he adds. "We both need our beauty sleep. You especially. No, in a thousand years or however long it'll take me to get ugly, will you marry me?"

I look at him. Dark and ruffled hair that matches the messiness of his room. Pale skin, smiling lips, a splash of freckles across his nose. A t-shirt over muscled arms. A teddy bear almost proudly displayed on the shelf behind him.

My cocky, arrogant, loveable, idiotic, sweet, utterly gorgeous best friend.

I'd marry him right then and there.

But that's hardly the kind of thing you can just blurt out to the guy who sees you in no way more than platonically, so I just roll over so he can't see my face. So I can't see his.

"Only if we can get geese," I say.

"No way," he replies. "One once chased me a mile and then bit my foot. I couldn't walk for a week. How about chickens?"

I yawn. "Deal."

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	2. Nice

_AN: Quick update because I was so happy with the response from chapter one. You guys are the greatest, thank you. :)_

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><p>It's early morning (about 11:00am) and we've just woken up. We're sitting at the table in the Potter's kitchen, munching on a freshly baked batch of biscuits that probably weren't for us –breakfast, in other words.<p>

Louis is looking annoyingly perfect in that way of his that isn't at all appropriate or fair for someone who's just gotten out of bed. It always makes me wonder why I even bother waking up in the morning, let alone attempt to make myself look half decent. He probably thinks he looks intelligent, reading the newspaper like he is. I'm onto him though, I can see from here that that's definitely the comic section he's examining. I really don't see why he has to keep flicking his perfectly blond hair out of his face like he is. The movement is so regular and annoying that I just want to throw something at him. Preferably a clip to pin his fringe back. Or a pair of scissors to cut it off. I'm not fussy.

James is chewing loudly on his biscuit and looking so completely and utterly _James_, with his stupid bed hair and his stupid freckles, that I just want to hit him or snog him or _something_. But I don't, because that would probably alarm him and he has a habit of sprouting off random curses when alarmed and I'm not really in the mood to be transfigured into a teacup.

Again.

So I sit and I chew on this biscuit of unimaginable chocolate chip goodness and try to repress any and all violent urges.

Then my favourite person in the world walks in.

I say so. "Oh my Merlin, it's my favourite person in the world!"

Al Potter, James' little brother, looks faintly frightened; his usual response at seeing me. His freakishly green eyes widen and he turns around and walks straight back out.

"He is so cute!" I practically squeal.

James and Louis exchange a look. I can just feel them judging me.

Hey, I'm sorry but Al is just too adorable and so easy to freak out, I can't not do it. It also annoys James, which is always a plus.

"Your obsession over my brother grows scarier everyday, Ali-bear," James says. "You do know it's really weird, right?"

"So is your face, but we refrain from commenting on that, don't we?" I reply. Ooh, burn.

"No, you don't. You mention it multiple times a day."

"It's that abhorrent," I lie.

"If by abhorrent you mean beautiful then I agree with you," he counters.

Of course I mean beautiful, you silly twat.

I don't say that though.

He'd probably take it the wrong way.

Think I was complimenting him or something.

He continues talking, which I'm thankful for as I'm still half asleep and not quite yet at the level of consciousness to think up a comeback better than, _"You're abhorrent,"_ which isn't exactly the height of wit I strive for.

"But that aside," he says. "I'm sure my brother would appreciate being able to enter a room in his own house without having to fear he may be hugged or something."

Pssh, Albus loves me.

"I'm sure your brother would appreciate being able to get within ten feet of _his_ brother without having his name insulted or being turned into a turnip."

James grins. Stupid prat. "I'm sure he would," he says.

"I'm glad that's sorted," I say, crossing my arms over my chest in a way that I hope will end this discussion. I stare at him defiantly and he stares back at me with his stupid cocky grin splattered across his stupid face and before I know it we're having a staring contest.

I can only concentrate on two things now. The first; trying not to blink, because James is a right tosser when he wins (which I hate to admit, is always). The second is trying not to blush because, as I'm sure you've gathered, James is staring _right at me_ and his eyes really are ridiculously pretty for a boy's.

Why can't my eyelashes be that curly?

Louis seems not to notice any of this and doesn't react at all. It's probably because like James and I, he's incapable of functioning during the AM hours, or maybe because he's just used to James and I's constant bickering. What a great, functional relationship we have. Also, unlike James and me, Louis is genuinely a nice person and is actually nice to Al. Not that I'm not nice, I'm very nice. Too nice, some might say. James is nice too. Nice looking.

Godric's Galloping _Geese_, why am I so easily distracted?

Let's see, back to, uhh …what was I talking about?

Luckily I don't have to worry about piecing together the shards of my scattered brain (thank Merlin, I'd be there all day) for Ginny walks into the room. She looks at us all in that stern way of her's that makes me feel like I should apologise for being born, before crossing the room and snatching the plate of biscuits from right under James's hand as he reaches for another one. He grumbles but doesn't dare object.

A little healthy fear never hurt anyone.

"So who or what will you be terrorizing today?" she asks, looking around at us all. So we all feel inclusively threatened, most likely. How kind of her.

James crosses his arms over his chest. "I don't know who or what you're talking about, Mother. We were going to do a crossword. Or Sudoku."

Ginny just snorts. "You'll be making yourselves useful, that's what you'll be doing."

James smiles hopefully. "By keeping out of your sight?"

"By running some errands."

James crinkles his nose. "The only thing I'll be running is a bath."

"Good," says Ginny. "You need a wash."

I do love that woman.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. "Here's your list of things to do."

My eyes widen substantially. It really is _quite_ long.

Louis gets to his feet. "I have to go, uhh, water my plants…" he says. Very convincingly.

Not.

Ginny shoots him a stern glance that kills his cheeky grin. "Sit down."

He does. (Who wouldn't?)

James takes the parchment with a scowl. "But Mum," he whines. "I have friends over!"

It's a pitiful excuse, even for him.

Ginny looks from me, to Louis, to James and then back across us all. "I think these two spend more time here than at their own houses," she says. "I don't know why we don't adopt them permanently."

Oh, please _don't_.

I'm pretty sure the only way this situation could get worse was if he was my brother. Yipee, thanks for suggesting it. Really.

James's and my eyes meet for a moment, before glancing away quickly. Well, this is awkward.

"Uhh, I don't know if their parents would approve of that, Mum," says James, scratching the back of his head and glancing nervously at the ground.

I freeze and stare at him. Why would he do that? That little scratch thing? Does he realise how endearing it is? Does he do it on purpose? Why am I being tortured like this?

_And what's this about James and nervous looks?_

I kind of lose track of the conversation for a while, part of my mind's reeling of on some stupid tangent while the other counts the freckles scattered across James's nose.

Why would it that? Count his freckles, I mean (and no, the answer is not because I already know how many there are). I hereby disown my brain. I swear it and I are not connected in anyway.

Yes, I know how stupid that sounds. I'm no Ravenclaw and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.

When I (finally) snap back to Earth, Louis is snatching the list from James's hands and skimming over it. He then wacks James across the back of his head with it.

What a brilliant man. I knew we were friends for a reason.

"Number Four," he reads aloud, "Bake another batch of biscuits. Number Five: Share half amongst yourselves and Al and Lily. Number Six: Mail remainder to the Scamanders. Number Eight: Visit your grandparents." He looks up. "James, this is hardly strenuous."

James crosses his arms across his chest and -believe it or not- pouts.

I'm sorry, I didn't realise I was crushing on a four-year-old.

"It's the principle of the matter!" he exclaims.

"The principle of the matter is that you're a twit," says Louis. "Come on, let's go."

"Only if I don't have to get dressed," James says stubbornly.

Which is how it came about that we end up standing in the middle of the village, Louis and I dressed, James in his pyjama pants.

Hot damn, I know how to pick 'em.

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	3. Friend of the Year

_Author's Note: My greatest thanks and appreciations for all your kind words submitted through the format of the review, my darling readers. You are, as one might say, the bombshizzle-eth._

_(Ahh, yeah… just ignore me. THANKS THOUGH. :D)_

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><p>"James, Louis, please at least try to stay on task," says Ginny, before we head out to complete the first few numbers on her To Do List (which really just consists of things we need to buy). "No flirting with the poor shopkeepers."<p>

"What about Alice!"

Oi, leave me out of this. Classic James, trying to pin the blame on me. Git.

"Alice isn't a shameless flirt," replies Ginny, crossing her arms over her chest as a small smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

I laugh and James pulls a face, sticking his tongue out at me. How mature. Attractive too.

_Not._

Louis, who has just _perfected _the 'I'm innocent' grin, smiles. "We'll try to restrain ourselves," he says, looking the part of the perfect bloody angel even though we all know that he'll be in the sweet shop be making the cute boy behind the counter all nervous and flustered the moment we're there.

Louis is definitely a lost cause, but I'm pretty sure I can manage to keep James from noticing that the café has a new (_extremely pretty_) waitress. Because, you know, that's what friends do. (Please just go with it.)

Ginny seems to be thinking along the same lines as I am. (What if she can read minds? Please don't be able to read minds. Ginny, can you hear this? Blink twice if you can.)

"Alice," she says, turning to me (and there's no abnormity in her blinking _-thank Merlin_). "Please try to make sure they behave themselves."

"Of course," I smile.

James coughs loudly, and it sounds suspiciously like "Suck up," so I kick him.

He kicks me back. _Charming._

Ginny rolls her eyes and shoos us outside before a full scale war can break out. We walk up the path and Louis stands in between James and I, so we can't cause each other "grievous bodily harm," as he says.

How insulting. Clearly we are the very picture of civilised.

Godric's Hollow is only a small village and it doesn't take long to reach its centre, where the small hub of shops rest. I don't think it's a testament to James's sanity that he barely gets a second glance, pyjama pants and all. This must be normal behaviour for him. Why am I not surprised?

We have a small list of grocery-type items to buy but we stop off at the sweet store first because, well, we're _us_ and what more do you expect? Sugar is our greatest weakness.

…Along with just a general lack of strength or any other remarkable abilities.

Actually, James is pretty amazing at transfiguration and I can touch my nose with my tongue. But I digress.

Once inside the store I only have to turn my back for a second (to admire the new chocolate display, mmmmm) for Louis to hone in on his target. I turn back around to see him leaning over the counter, twisting a lollipop around his tongue quite seductively while Ralph Behind The Counter blushes red and struggles to balance the precarious stack of boxes he's carrying.

Ralph Behind The Counter's name isn't actually Ralph, nor does it include Behind The Counter (I don't think), but that's just what we call him. I'm not sure why. Please don't question it; you'll receive no (sane) reply. Logic isn't our strongest point.

I roll my eyes and turn away from Louis, automatically catching sight of James, who's trying to hide the fact that he's just knocked over several boxes of boiled lollies.

I'd question why I am friends with these idiots, but I have proved time and time again that I'm just as bad as either of them. …_Not, _that I'd ever admit it. But really, there's only so many times you can trip out of the portrait hole (or over your own feet) or break off in the middle of your sentence when an attractive person walks past before you realise that maybe you're not exactly the height of grace of grace or class.

James struggles to keep a hold on the jars he's knocked over with one hand while stuffing the rest back onto the shelf above him with the other. He catches my eye and grins his casual, easy smile. Like he's just taken a single jar off a shelf, like a normal person would. Not -as I can only guess- tried to grab them all at once, like an idiot (him) would.

My stomach turns back flips at his simple gesture but I ignore it (okay, maybe I send mentally threaten it to hell and back but no one needs to know that) and go over to help the stupid fool. I am an A+ friend, I really am. I deserve an award. Maybe a trophy. Or a medal. Or at least Certificate of Appreciation.

_Alice Longbottom,_

_Kick-arse friend and all around brilliant person_

I like it. Mum can hang it up behind the counter of the _Cauldron, _like she did with the painted portrait Dad completed of his beloved Mimbulus Mibletonia (and yes, that's a plant)_. _What illustrious company my certificate shall keep.

My parents are mental, I tell you.

Anyway, me: best friend of the year.

If you ignore who I may or not be in love with.

Hey, no one's perfect.

James and I stare around at the shelves and the wonderful goodies they're packed with for a while, even though we know we'll just get The Usual. Louis flirts his little French heart out while we do so, to little or no reply (if you don't count blushing, choking noises and the dropping of sweets as replies –which I don't).

See, the thing about Ralph is that he doesn't talk. Ever. We weren't sure he could for a while, until James handed over a few less coins than may have been appropriate (he still claims that was unintentional, but we know better –the little thief) and we were proven wrong. Ralph sure spoke up then.

We were quite literally (okay, _metaphorically_) blown away with surprise. (But just imagine it as literally, really. What a great mental picture.) We celebrated the momentous occasion by throwing toffees into the air like confetti and dancing a little too enthusiastically …and consequently, were thrown out onto the street. Louis claims it was because James and I have as little grace as a tap-dancing troll and far worse body odour.

I take back whatever I said about him being nice. Wanker.

James and I both share an understanding about the essentialness and seriousness and all the other er-nesses of lolly buying. It is not a task to be taking lightly. Louis, just …doesn't. So being the fantastic friends we are, we kick him outside. He was distracting Ralph anyway. We need Ralph to be paying utmost attention to our (possibly slightly over-enthusiastic) ordering and unfortunately that isn't possible with our overly-pretty Veela friend present.

GOSH LOUIS, YOU'RE TEARING THIS FAMILY APART.

..Ahem.

I'm sorry, I get a little carried away sometimes. I feel the rest of the world should be thankful that they receive only the filtered versions of my thoughts. The world would be a far more insane place if I didn't force myself to keep my mouth shut so often. I'm doing a favour to society. I should be rewarded. I'd like an award.

…Okay, I am not starting this again. Don't worry.

We leave the store a few minutes later with more sweets than either of us can really afford. Louis is sulking on the pavement because that's what Weasley-Potter men do best. Not that pavement has to be involved, just the sulking. Anyway, it doesn't last long because James and I, in another shining example of us being Friends Of The Year yank him to his feet by grabbing his elbows from either side and then drop him in a garden bed.

That cheers him up.

At least I'm taking him chasing us around through the town, dusting dirt and flowers off his clothes and out of his hair while shouting obscenities and threats while we laugh and jump potential hazards with too practised skill, as a sign of his appreciation.

I know he just wants to hug us.

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	4. On Fire

_AN: Hey, remember those irregular updates I warned you about…? ;)_

_I apologise for this chapter's general lack of quality. Next time we'll meet some more characters. Exciting!_

_Please tell me what you think. :)_

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><p>Personally I wouldn't trust the three of us in a kitchen let alone actually cooking because, well, cooking involves the application of heat and I'd really, <em>really<em>rather not catch on fire. I'd take it, though, if it was a choice between that and facing Ginny's wrath after accidentally incinerating her curtains.

I turn to James. "Please don't set me on fire," I say.

He's staring into the oven, head cocked to the side as if it's the strangest thing he's ever seen. He probably hadn't noticed its existence until now. Poor, sheltered little boy. I mentally pat his head condescendingly.

"There can be no guarantees," he says sombrely, tipping his head to the other side, as his inspection of the cooking appliance continues.

Well, at least my imminent death doesn't call for a tone of joy.

Speaking of joy, or, well, another positive emotion. I love Louis.

Again.

Yes, he's redeemed himself in my eyes after earlier. Or, well, maybe I feel a little bad for pushing him into that garden bed. (Except not really, he looked _hilarious _running around with those leaves in his hair.)

He's like the master of the kitchen, running back and forth like he actually has some idea of what he's doing. Which he apparently does, making him kind of in control, seeing as he's the only one of us not entirely useless. His face is set with business-like concentration and he seems well organized as he grabs things from cupboards and drawers and piles them onto the central bench. However, I'd prefer you to picture him running about like a chicken with its head cut off. It's a funnier mental image. No offense intended to chickens; headless or otherwise.

Louis is actually a good cook (or maybe just capable of reading a recipe) and he does most of the work, ordering James and I to complete almost offensively mindless jobs as he does.

I'm in the middle of greasing the pans, which -I must inform you- is the most thrilling job to complete. Please note the sarcasm. I'm concentrating on it, though, as knowing my luck, I'll probably manage to make a complete disaster out of this simple task, and someone will lose an eye. I haven't entirely thought through how that may happen, all I know is that if it does I'm going to have a seriously difficult time attempting straight faced conversation with either of my best friends if one of them is wearing an eye patch. I may even start talking like pirate, overuse the term "arrrgh," grow a wooden leg and acquire a pet parrot to live on my shoulder, which would not be good at all as I'm _terrified _of birds.

...So, I'm greasing the trays. It's all fine and dandy and all eyes are sealed firmly in place (as far as I know without having to turn around and check) until I feel an irritating presence on or around the back of my neck. I ignore it at first, being, as it is, _not completely paranoid_(which, in it's self, is not an entirely sane thing not to be, what with friends like some of mine), but after the second or third time, when my ears pick up what can only be the sound of muffled laughter, I freeze in place and my hand creeks slowly and deliberately towards the back of my neck.

I haven't even felt it before I'm guessing, _knowing_. "I'm covered in dough, aren't I." It's not even a question. I'm far too aware of the answer.

"You are," James replies, in much the same tone. I turn around to look at him. He's sitting upon the central island bench, looking at me with twinkling blue eyes and smirking that lopsided grin while licks the spoon he undoubtedly used to flick biscuit batter at me, clean. Whatever comeback I had ready -and I like to think it was a clever one- dies immediately in my throat.

He continues. "Don't bother yourself though, ma'am," he says like an old-fashioned gentleman. "The look is quite fetching on you."

Louis chimes in, grinning. "You make the 'covered in food' look work."

"It's the seasons latest," I say with a roll of my eyes.

They laugh and go back to what they were doing. In James's case it's eating as much uncooked dough as he can sneak from under Louis's watchful eyes.

I'm left standing with my back covered in biscuit batter. Thanks for the help, guys. It's appreciated.

"So am I just going to stand here like this all day, or…?"

Louis just shrugs but James seems to take pity on me. "I'll help you," he says, which is surprisingly nice of him. "Just whip your shirt off, then."

…I actually cannot comment on that.

My cheeks blush so red that I'm struck with nothing but the immediate concern that I may have turned into a tomato.

I really hope James is attracted to vegetables.

…Except tomatoes are meant to be fruits, aren't they? Oh, this is no good…

"You alright, 'Li?" He asks, using just one of his ridiculous abbreviations of my name. He spent the entirety of our fourth year calling me _'Ice._ He continues, "We can keep all our clothes on if you'd prefer?"

I am not going to make it out of this year alive.

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	5. Particularly Mad Biscuits

**AN: Uhhh, so I found this chapter fully typed up on my USB. Awkward. o.O I think I'd left it with hopes that I'd come back and could extend it, because I wasn't actually able to include the characters I mentioned in my last AN, but I think I'll have to save them til next time. Something to look forward to! ;) Hope you enjoy! :)**

The time has come. It's the moment we've all been waiting for. The crowd watches with baited breath, reading to burst into applause any moment now as I prepare myself to make my thank you speech ("I'd like to thank my parents for taking time out of their busy schedule of knitting ski suits for geraniums –or whatever it is they do in the greenhouse- to raise me.") and no, I am not being overly dramatic, because… the biscuits are finally ready! I cannot contain my excitement –except I can, because otherwise I'd miss the opening of the oven and the removal of the delicious munchies because I'd be too busy leading a parade or something- because it's time to eat!

You're probably thinking, 'wow, I'd love to see her when something really good happens…' and you can think this, but just remember, they're choc chip and they're friggin' AMAZING and I just really, really, love my food, okay. It's not a crime. Food is good. It keeps you alive …and stuff. It has other merits but I'm not going to list them all. Don't tempt me. I'm just going to say that it could be worse. I could be hooked on class A drugs, but I'm not. I just like sugar. You can stop judging me now and I can stop rambling on like an idiot and actually eat these delicious wonders of the baking kind.

I swear Louis is some kind of god, because these actually look like biscuits. Yes, I am easily impressed, but really, it's not as easy as it looks. I baked cookies once, as a child. My little sister thought the dog had been sick all over the dishes and tried to make him better by taking him to "hospital," which happened to be the laundry basket and Mum wasn't paying attention and nearly hung up the poor thing by his ears from the line. Yes, that is what it's like at my house. My family's mental, but I still stand by that cooking is a dangerous, difficult thing.

We mail off half the cookies to the Scamanders, as requested by the list. (Oooh, out of order! We're so rebellious.) Well, by 'we' I obviously mean James and Louis did it because there is no way on this Earth that I am going anywhere near an evil beast such as that owl. And by that owl, I mean any owl. Trust me to be the only witch with a fear of birds.

I won't have anything to do with them. I won't fly a broomstick because that's just taking me to their level and who knows what'll happen once I'm within their grasp. I could be kidnapped and carried away to a giant nest to be fed regurgitated worms or be pecked or something equally horrifying. I've been known to hide under the table when the post comes in during meals at school. Whatever, it's no big deal. You cannot blame me for my phobia, though. They eat live mice! Who does that? There are so many other perfectly reasonable things to eat. Like biscuits, which the Potters' owl is probably going to do anyway, sending it off with a plate of them like at. I'd never trust an owl. Have you seen their eyes? They're all yellow and open and starey and they just stare at you and they're just really, really scary, okay.

While I'm coping with the mental trauma of being an owl-fearing imbecile, dear little Albus Potter enters the room. Yes, he's not really little, being significantly taller than myself. But isn't he just adorable? I'd tell him that but I don't want to be his equivalent of an owl. Besides, I've probably already done so at least a couple times today. The kid loves me.

He takes a seat at the table, unwisely at the one opposite me. True, it's the only seat not taken up by feet or a sleeping cat, but I'm going to judge him on the intelligence of his decision anyway.

"Hello," I say, like I'm actually a normal person.

"…Hello," he replies warily, reaching across and grabbing a biscuit.

"How are you?" I ask, and I'm so ridiculously proud of myself. Lalala, I can converse.

"Good…" replies Al wearily, looking at me like he suspects I want to reach across and steal his any glasses at any given moment. Pshh, never happened before. …Much. "How are you?" he asks. Aww, he's so polite. I think I want to set him up with my sister. Then, when I'm married to James, we'll all be related and wouldn't that just be the cutest?

I beam. "Good thanks."

It's at this point that Ginny walks into the kitchen and nearly dies of shock. Luckily it is only nearly though. It'd be just my luck to be the one responsible for the untimely death of the The Boy Who Lived's wife.

"My ears must be deceiving me," she says, shocked. "This can't be civilised conversation I'm hearing in here, can it?"

Why thanka-you, Ma'am. I do try.

"I thought I'd walked into the wrong house," she continues. She then looks suspiciously towards James, who's trying to swallow the evidence that he'd just been attempting to eat two biscuits at once. "You haven't blown anything up yet?"

There's the sound of giggling coming from the doorway, and James at turns to glare at his sister, Lily, who's just entered the room. "No Mum," he says haughtily, as if the suggestion is a ridiculous one, rather than a completely reasonable and quite plausible one like it is. "I have not. And I'm offended that you'd assume I have."

"Lighten up, sweetie," says Ginny.

"And by that she doesn't mean light up explosives," teases Lily, slipping into the chair Louis removed his foot from upon Ginny's entrance. Little sneak, he is. Caught in the act. …By me. Which means nothing. Carry on, Louis.

Let me take a moment to tell you about Lily Potter. There's James, who's just brilliant all round. Umm, when he wants to be. And there's Al, the sweet and awkward Hufflepuff whom I love. And finally, there's Lily, who's probably the nicest of them all, but being a Slytherin that just frightens me to death.

Slight exaggeration. She's no Dom Weasley. Lily's scary in that she always seems to know everything about everyone, and she watches you like she can read your every thought. Oh, and you can always guarantee her to be cooler than you. Her clothes will look better and her comebacks will be funnier.

I hate her.

Except I don't. Umm, this is awkward. I don't know. She's alright, I guess. Except she has this insane theory that I'm in love with her brother.

Okay, so that may be true. To a degree. But no one's meant to know, are they? Especially not scheming little third years. I am suspicious of her motives. insert suspicious look in her direction

She turns to me and smiles. "Hi, Alice," she says, and she's grinning with a light in her eyes and she glances not at all subtly towards James with a raise of her eyebrow and I mentally go over the entirety of my magical education to see if I know a way to simply melt into the tiles below me.

I don't.

"Hello!" I say, really quite sanely, as my voice comes out in a squeak, and Al looks under the table to check that no one's stood on the cat. "Would you like a weather?" I ask, because I was going to ask if she'd like a biscuit then I changed my mind and was going to comment on the weather.

Can I please have a new brain? Thank you.

"Ali," says James, conversationally, as he reaches for another biscuit, his tone like one you'd use over high tea. "Have I ever told you that you are entirely crackers?"

I just slump by head against the table and pretend I haven't been labelled a particularly mad biscuit. Life is hard.


End file.
